The Runaway (39 page)

He didn’t say that, though. He knew better than to push the Italians. This could cause outright war.

Now he had his brother and the eejit Docherty on their way over to his home and had to try and make sense of all that had happened. This had come at the worst time; the FBI were sniffing round and the IRS were on their backs. Now he had to face the Italians
and
the fucking government, and on top of everything else his ulcer was playing him up.

 

John Castellano was getting into his car outside the club on Broadway when he saw his father-in-law coming towards him.

He knew instantly that he was in for trouble. His father-in-law’s face was stern, eyes concealed behind dark glasses - always a bad sign. He didn’t return John’s greeting and that was when he got scared.

As Paul struck him hard in the face, John tried to fight him off. But the older man was stronger, and there was a point he had to make. He began to beat his son-in-law in front of all the people around them.

The bouncers from the club watched, their faces impassive. Passers-by paused, interested to see what was going down. A crowd formed as Paul Santorini beat his son-in-law to death.

Even when his victim was on the ground and begging for him to stop, still Paul beat him. Using fists encased in knuckle-dusters, he hammered the other man’s face until it was unrecognisable. Finally, he took a length of lead piping from his driver and finished the job.

Then, breathing heavily, he straightened his hair, smoothed down his suit and walked with an unsteady gait back to his stretch limo by the kerb. Once he was inside, the car sped away.

The crowd was dispersing as the police arrived. As usual, no one had seen anything.

The bouncers shrugged and got on with their work. The man lying face down and drenched in blood was nothing to do with them any more. It didn’t matter that until that moment John Castellano had paid their wages, joked with them, and asked after their families.

He was finished, the king was dead.

Long live the new king, whoever he might be.

 

Jack Mahoney’s face was a picture as he took the call from his tout on the street. Putting down the phone, he sighed heavily.

‘Castellano is dead, beaten to death by his father-in-law on Broadway an hour ago. I still can’t believe you were fucking stupid enough to fuck a Mafia Capo’s daughter! There’s not enough fuckable women in New York already, but you have to choose a Mafia princess?’

Petey nearly laughed, the sound escaping as a soft snort, and it brought his brother’s wrath down on him.

‘You think this is funny, eh? You think this is amusing? You want to take on Paul Santorini, is that it? Only I’m willing to let you negotiate this one away if you think you can, little brother. Just say the fucking word. To keep our mutual friend here alive is going to take some doing, I can tell you. Santorini’s lost face, you fucking pair of fools. He’s also lost his temper which I understand is like the wrath of God. Do you two realise what’s going down here, how serious this shit is?’

Feeling like a schoolboy caught out by his headmaster, Eamonn stood up. ‘I’ll go and see him, try to expl—’

Jack Mahoney put his head in his hands and laughed bitterly. ‘Would you listen to this fucking eejit? Eamonn, if he so much as lays eyes on you, you’re dead meat. I tell you something for nothing: I hope the piece of skirt was worth all this, I really do, because she’d need a cunt dripping diamonds before I’d lay my fucking life on the line.’

The three men stared at each other. Finally it was Petey who broke the silence.

‘We wait until he contacts us, that’s all we can do. Jack’s right. If you go to see him, Eamonn, you’ll antagonise him further. I’ve had men on the street all day finding out what’s going down, and that isn’t easy. The Italians keep themselves to themselves. Let’s see what Santorini’s next move is, then we’ll take it from there.’

Five minutes later the phone rang and they were informed by an anonymous man that their club in Harlem had been fire bombed.

The ball had been set rolling.

Less than an hour later another call informed them that sixteen of their lorries were out of action at the Queens depot, and the drivers had all been sent home. At this, the three men left Jack’s house and made their way to the riverside depot. If they were going to be killed, they all wanted it to be away from family and friends.

Jack was fuming, as much with the Italians as with Eamonn. ‘All this for a fecking fuck!’ was all they heard over and over again. Petey was beginning to take his brother’s side; this was all a bit rich for the sake of a single woman - and her neither Irish nor black.

 

Paul Santorini was finally calming down. Inside the Ravenite Club he drank a few Grappas and waited to hear if his quarry had been located. He knew he was a laughing stock among his contemporaries, even though they would never dare show this inside the confines of the club. He also knew that he was looked on now as a weak man; his daughter’s activities had been freely discussed all over Little Italy during the course of the day. She had got herself a reputation, had even brought her men to this very club, he understood now.

For that alone he could kill her.

He knew what the word was, and in his own way agreed with what was being said. But, God help her, Maria was a widow now and he would see to it that she repented of her whore’s ways. Paul intended to put her under the jurisdiction of his cousin Carlos, a minor Mob figure and a family man. He would take her into his Las Vegas home - for a price. Paul refused ever to look on her face again. He would live this down if it was the last thing he did.

His Don had requested a meeting tonight at his home. Paul knew he was in for trouble and the knowledge made him even more uptight.

The Mafia was his extended family, his Don the head of it for Paul. He knew he had to swallow his cock and tell the man exactly what he wanted to hear if he were to keep his goodwill and, more importantly, his own life. He had broken the cardinal rule - settled a personal score on the street in front of witnesses.

His Don would not forgive that in a hurry.

Paul closed his eyes and saw his little Maria as she had been, a child with beautiful eyes and hair. She had grown into a sensual woman, a whore of a woman, and now he had to pay the consequences of his devotion to her.

 

Paul Santorini’s Don was called Pietro DeMarco. A small man, seventy years old, he kept himself fit by working out in a gym built into his office on Eighth Avenue. He dressed like a peasant, wearing a flat cap and a muffler. In the street, he acted like a fool, talking to everyone and making a big deal out of the smallest things.

He acted like this to take away any heat.

Unlike the younger men, he did not dress like an extra from
The Godfather
. He knew the importance of keeping a low profile. It was what had kept him alive for fifty years in America, and what had got him elected as Don twenty years previously. The FBI had tried to implicate him in racketeering many times and had always had to let the charges drop.

Now Don Pietro was annoyed.

One of his favourite Capos had committed an error of judgement so great it meant having to call him in for a talk. Straighten him out. This fact alone upset the Don.

He had always respected Paul Santorini, had liked him even. He knew all the talk concerning Santorini’s daughter. A man with only sons himself, he understood how a father could love a daughter too much.

That was human nature.

But this daughter, if all the stories were true, was not a respectable woman.

Now there was trouble brewing with the Irish and the Don did not want this. The Irish were a force to be reckoned with, presently collecting money for a war in their homeland that beggared belief. Even the British Army were having trouble keeping them down; the Irish were a fighting nation and Don Pietro didn’t want to have to face up to them over a mere woman.

The peace between the different nationalities had been good for everyone. Now they were in danger of outright war, and if that took off on the streets of New York then the Chinese and other immigrants might decide they wanted to muscle in.

Paul should have come to him, that was how it normally worked. Instead, they were waiting to see if the world as they knew it was about to be rocked on its foundations. Altogether a troublesome and annoying situation.

Don Pietro took his own pulse, a habit he had acquired a few years before. He had had a heart scare; it had turned out to be indigestion, but the scare had been enough for him. He took deep breaths and waited for Paul to come to him. Don Pietro knew he would arrive soon. It would be more than he dared to try and overlook a direct command.

He had looked on Paul as the next-in-line; now he would have to seek elsewhere. The men would hear of this and their respect for him would wane.

Unless he took steps to pre-empt that.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Jack Mahoney was resigned to his losses. He knew he could not claim on insurance for the vehicles at the Queens depot without involving the police. They would just have to be replaced from capital and the men paid while they couldn’t work.

His legitimate businesses were a source of pride to Jack, and to have one of them practically ruined overnight broke his heart. As he had surveyed the damage done, he’d fought an urge to cry. The engines were all burnt out; the paintwork blistered from the force of the petrol bomb. He knew that if everything wasn’t sorted out within the next few days, he would have to involve the other Irish families.

Something he really didn’t want to do.

The O’Neills and the McBrides would be only too pleased to help out, but at a price. Currently the first family in the Irish community, the Mahoneys would be laying themselves open to all sorts of trouble if they asked for help.

Jack could end up forfeiting control of the IRA collections, a thing the other families wanted badly as hitherto they had been forced to hand the money over to the Mahoneys. Now there was a big bombing going down in Aldershot, England, and Jack was behind it one hundred per cent. He knew that the bigger the war in England, the more money to be made here.

He dealt directly with the IRA through his cousin in Cork. They trusted him, and if he went to them for help they would be only too glad to oblige.

Once more, though, at a price.

He didn’t want to be beholden to them any further, he liked the situation just as it was. They needed him, trusted him, and this kept the other Irish families on their toes. It was a good arrangement in that respect.

But the IRA would take on the Mafia and laugh while they did it, if things became that bad. They were warriors fighting for freedom; the Mafia men were small fry to them. It could cause the biggest transatlantic incident since Pearl Harbor.

Bombing mainland England was one thing; bombing New York something else entirely. The families, Irish and Italian, were all wary of the FBI. They knew that their days were numbered and were all trying to become as legit as possible. Now there had been a murder, two bombings, and this was only the start. Jack Mahoney had to try and sort all this out once and for all. Then, if it all fell out of bed, he would have a rethink. See whom he could trust the most and who would want the least from him. He hadn’t built up his businesses to have them taken from under his nose and jurisdiction by a few Irish navvies with an eye to the main chance.

 

Paul Santorini did not arrive at his Don’s home until late evening. This gave Don Pietro another grudge against him. As Santorini was ushered into the Don’s study he saw the steely glint in the old man’s eyes.

‘There was a time when you would have made your way to see me promptly. This, I think, is a sign of the times. No one has any respect any more. I’m an old man, I have little left in life except a good brain and a liking for punctuality.’ He rose from his chair, his smallness belying his strength.

‘I can only apologise, Don DeMarco,’ Paul said lamely. ‘This has been a wearing day. I have tried to uphold my family’s honour . . .’

The Don interrupted him. ‘Sit down, for Christ’s sakes. What honour? Your daughter, may God forgive me for saying this, is the cause of all your problems. You know what my Don used to say to me: “Get rid of the cause and you solve your problem”.’

Paul Santorini felt his heart sink down to his boots.

The old man walked around the study, his hands in the air. ‘Honour, honour. That’s all I hear about these days. But there’s no honour among thieves. I have lived seventy years and that’s all I have really learned.’

Paul listened respectfully; he could not do otherwise. He knew the old man would talk a while and then eventually get to the nub of what he wanted to say.

‘I listen to everyone, I hear everything that goes on. I know that Maria has always liked the men.’ He held up his hand as if Paul were going to disagree and carried on talking.

‘This trouble with the Irish - she is behind it all. A man is dead by your hand. I understand that: he was violent to your child, it was all you could do. But a passer-by murdered in cold blood? The days of the family murdering in the street are long gone, I hope. Since Al Capone moved out of the Bronx and settled himself in Chicago, we have striven for respectability. The five families of New York are the most important families, you know this. We must set an example. Today I have had calls from all the other Dons. They want to know what is happening. Why all this bloodshed. And, more importantly, they want to know where it leaves them. They want to meet and discuss this matter. I can understand their worries. I would feel exactly the same. Things like this can escalate.’

His voice changed imperceptibly and Paul was reminded forcibly of the threat this man could pose to him.